


Talking Point

by falsteloj



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange 2016, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9489929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsteloj/pseuds/falsteloj
Summary: In which Harvey Bullock is slow on the uptake.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



> Chocolate Box 2017 treat for days4daisy.

Becoming Acting Captain wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be. He had more authority, true, and a little extra money in his back pocket at the end of each month. But it came with responsibility, buckets of it. Irregular hours, too, even more so than he was used to, and long nights spent poring over the mistakes in everyone else’s paperwork.

There was only one detective in the entire department who could be relied upon to have properly dotted their I’s and crossed their T’s, and that was Gotham’s golden boy.

“I ought to make you run a training session on it,” he said one night, gratefully accepting a chilled beer from the refrigerator, “Jim Gordon’s guide to not writing like a fucking moron.”

Jim shrugged, laughed it off, but Harvey wasn’t blind to the faint color in his cheeks. Only Jim Gordon would be that bowled over by a compliment on his ability to hand his reports in on time. Harvey followed it up, all the same, and got some of the rookies to take their lead from Jim. Knew it was working when he didn’t have to send the same piece back three, four times, before it was passable.

It did Jim good too. Got him to focus on something other than his own problems. His fuck-up of a love life, and the pall of misery that had hung over him since Lee had finally made it clear that they were never, ever going to be making another go of it.

Harvey only wished Jim could help with the rest of it. The excruciating meetings with the pen pushers from City Hall, and the endless demands on his time from HR, from the union, from the public. Nothing he ever did was good enough for any of them, and when he had no choice but to turn down Jim’s suggestion of drinks for the third time, Jim simply countered with an offer to watch television on the couch in Jim’s apartment.

By rights he should have refused that too. Could stare at the gogglebox easily enough at his own place, and not have to get back up and drive home afterwards. But Jim’s place was always clean, and his kitchen cupboards always had food of some description in them. Jim’s exclusive company was a big enough draw on its own, so he gave in, just once, and before he knew it he was keeping spare changes of clothes at Jim’s, for the nights when he fell asleep on the sofa.

Jim bought him a toothbrush, no doubt some kind of veiled insult, and after a few weeks of the pair of them subsisting almost entirely on take out, he started actually cooking dinner, the smell of food assaulting him before he even got the key in the door.

And, okay, maybe that was a little familiar but in their line of work it made sense. Jim was the one who had suggested giving the key to him anyway, and Harvey wasn’t about to do anything that might make Jim want to dial back on their arrangement. Because sometimes, some nights, when Jim was trying and failing not to let on that he was waiting for Harvey’s verdict on his latest variation on cheese and pasta, or meat and potato, it was so easy to imagine that they were something more than partners.

More than friends, even.

He daydreamed about it, endlessly, during particularly boring briefings, and created whole fantasy scenarios that involved Jim’s ceaseless search for validation and a marked absence of clothing.

The only real problem was that Jim’s couch was so goddamned uncomfortable. It was killing him, sure and slow, until he had to spend almost a full week at his own apartment, just to give his back a break. Finally he couldn’t take the dismal quiet any longer, turned up at Jim’s in the middle of the night, and woke feeling like he’d gone three rounds with a freight train.

Jim noticed, of course he did. He hadn’t been fast tracked up from uniform without reason. He frowned at him from the other side of Harvey’s desk when he came in to update him on the cases he was working and, before Harvey could say a word, Jim was behind him, fingers digging in to the tense muscles of his shoulders.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groaned, embarrassed at how he sounded, and Jim just dug the heel of his hand into his flesh in a way that made him shudder. Had him nodding wordlessly when Jim told him, voice low and quiet,

“I’ll do this properly, when you come around later.”

Alvarez and McKenna exchanged glances when they caught Jim standing too close, and he heard on the grapevine there was a pool open on how long it would take before they started screwing.

Harvey didn’t care, too busy thinking about Jim’s promise. He thought of little else all afternoon, heat washing over him every time he remembered the feel of Jim’s fingers. The promise of more and better creeping ever closer. He told himself to get a grip, to not get carried away over something Jim meant as an act of friendship. Then he finally walked through the door to find Jim in nothing but lounge pants and undershirt, and all his good intentions went out of the window.

Because Jim led the way to his bedroom, the smell of freshly laundered sheets and Jim’s shampoo so intoxicating he wondered, not for the first time, what the hell it was Jim did that put all his chicks off him. He could cook - kind of - and he could clean. He could wander around looking like something from the pages of a top shelf magazine. What wasn’t there to love about the kid?

For once he didn’t protest at Jim’s instructions. It was all he could do to joke and wisecrack, his focus on not drawing attention to how much he was enjoying the view of Jim’s bare arms, even as he shucked his shoes and took off his tie and his suit jacket.

Jim was prepared, ever the boy scout, and when he was down to just his trousers, belt piled with the rest of his clothing, he told him to lay down on the bed and didn’t waste any time getting to work on his shoulders. Harvey decided that the girls at his favorite massage parlor had definitely been holding out on him. Jim’s hands were magic, were working miracles, and he would totally have embarrassed himself if Jim’s touch hadn’t leached it all away until he had to close his eyes and was lost to everything.

When he next succeeded in getting his eyes open the room was dark, nothing but the sodium of street lights and the blink of Jim’s phone charger for illumination. He shifted, stretched, and realized that not only had Jim put a blanket over him, Jim was under it too. He touched a tenative hand to Jim's arm, wondering what exactly the etiquette here was. But Jim didn't stir, and he was so relaxed all he had to do was shut his eyes and fall asleep again. 

They should have talked about it, probably, but Jim only smiled at him in the morning and put a plate of burnt toast down in front of him. He ate it anyway, still floating from Jim’s talented fingers, and they left for work together.

It might have never happened again. Might have just been one of those things you tried not to think about, lest they overpower your sense of reason. But some scumbag stuck a knife in Jim during an arrest and it was late by the time Harvey got him home. Rain pounded against the window, and Harvey had to help Jim towel dry his hair and get him into his pajamas. Even when he had no further reason to linger he wasn’t at all happy about leaving him. Jim was off his face on the pain meds, and Harvey knew all too well his propensity for getting into trouble.

“Just stay,” Jim told him, pupils blown wide from the painkillers as he tried for a smile. “You don’t even snore badly.”

“I shouldn’t,” he said, because this wasn’t like being handed a blanket and a pillow out in the living room. Jim was already in bed, was holding back the blankets, looking up at him hopefully.

“Please,” Jim said, soft and quiet, “I promise I won’t try anything.”

Harvey shook his head because that wasn’t at all what the problem was. But Jim was drugged up and talking crap, and he couldn't even call him out on it because that was a whole can of worms they didn’t need opening. Even if he had spent the last few months - the last few years - waiting for an invitation almost exactly like this one.

He gave in. Made sure to keep carefully to his own side of the bed, and didn’t begrudge the way Jim shifted about. Put a soothing hand on his arm when Jim started mumbling, words he couldn’t catch jumbling together, caught in the grip of a nightmare. Jim pushed closer to him, mind still stuck in Blackgate or Afghanistan, and Harvey made no effort to stop him. Held him a little too tight and only moved away when there was daylight streaming through the windows, just before Jim rejoined the land of the living. 

Jim flashed him the kind of smile that made his heart clench and got ready for work while Harvey scrambled eggs in the kitchen, drowning out the insistent voice that told him all he was doing was setting himself up for heartbreak. Violently kicked it into submission when Jim gave him a playful kiss to the cheek in gratitude, like they were playing out a scene from 1950s suburbia.

Heartbreak would be worth it.

“Are you staying at mine tonight?” Jim asked him at lunch, aiming for casual and failing, the tips of his ears red though the air conditioning in the diner was turned up full blast.

“Do you want me to?” He asked, just as deliberately lowkey, and when Jim nodded, a jerky motion he covered by sipping at his coffee, Harvey slouched back into his seat and grinned.

“All right then. But this time you're making breakfast.”

Just like that it was his new normal, passing out in Jim’s bed like they were an honest to God couple, even after the bandages came off and the doctors proclaimed him fighting fit again. Until next time, at any rate. Even after the first time they woke tangled up in each other, extricating themselves with bashful smiles and a mutual agreement not to talk about it.

They were simply two dudes who liked to spend time together and only had two one bed apartments between them. It didn’t mean anything.

Except Jim didn’t help matters at all, taking time out from their usual banter to send him honest little smiles, and buying him his favorite donuts, glancing up from his paperwork to make sure he was eating them.

He repaid it, couldn’t help himself. Fixed Jim his coffee the way he knew he liked it, and picked him up candy bars from the rec room vending machine. Let his hand rest on Jim’s shoulder more often, his traitorous thumb seeking out the sliver of skin between his collar and the short hair at his nape, and Jim blurted out in the car one morning,

“We might as well move in together.”

His heart skipped a beat, his brain short-circuiting, because Jim could not be suggesting what Harvey so wanted him to be suggesting.

“It makes no sense for both of us to keep paying rent when we only use one place,” Jim elaborated. “We could get a two bedroom apartment and it would still be cheaper.”

Of course it would. The disappointment was crushing, for all that he had known it was coming. Jim wanted his financial assistance, it wasn’t like he had ever been about to turn around and ask him to marry him.

It wasn’t as though it would have been all sweetness and light, either. He wasn’t an idiot. Jim was a pain in the ass to occasionally sleepover with, threw a fit over everything from the cap being left off the toothpaste to the mugs not going back into the cupboard in the right order, and he would only be worse to live full time with.

Would drive him nuts within the first month, and he’d either strangle Jim out of frustration, or Jim would lose it and end up in Arkham, rocking back and forth and muttering something about socks not being paired, or towels being left strewn over the bathroom floor.

“Don’t you think it might cramp your style?” Harvey asked, tone more vicious than he had intended because he was so desperate for it anyway. “What you gonna do when you want to bring some girl home?”

“Well, at least you recognize that you’re not going to have that problem,” Jim said, all smug little smile, and in that moment Harvey hated him. Hated him so much that he claimed to be too busy to eat lunch with anyone under the rank of Lieutenant, and was still intent on hating him when he found Jim waiting outside his office at the end of the day, tone conspiratorial as he said,

“I just found a place that’s right next door to a pizza joint. That has to be fate talking, right?”

Harvey shook his head, felt his resolve to stay mad dissolving, and jostled Jim’s shoulder as they made their way to the car together. Next time he’d make Jim get the goddamn subway.

Because it was all a joke, pie in the sky talk, or so he thought until his next day off rolled around and Jim dragged him to viewing after viewing, asking earnest questions of the realtor about local amenities and sureties.

He let Jim do it, bemused, and when it became clear Jim wasn’t going to pick up on the way she flicked her hair and checked her posture, she turned to him instead, asking,

“How long have you two been partners?”

It was obvious, he supposed, cop written all over them. He felt as though he might as well have it tattooed on his forehead sometimes.

“I’ve been putting up with his stubborn ass nearly four years now.”

Jim waved a hand, at once acknowledging and dismissive, too intent on examining every fucking closet in the place. Called over,

“You love it.”

Then disappeared into the bathroom to make notes on God only knew what. Harvey didn’t think he had even bothered to look at his current apartment. Had just turned up and collected the keys, then dumped his boxes of crap on the floor before going out and finding a bar to get plastered in.

In the present he shrugged for the realtor’s benefit,

“It’s true. He’d be lost without me.”

She beamed, face lighting up,

“I think you make a lovely couple!”

He was still getting his head around the fact she was being serious when Jim stepped back into the room. Was still working out how he was supposed to correct her mistake without Jim ever finding out about it, when Jim nodded decisively,

“We’ll take it.”

The realtor clapped her hands, grinned like a kid at Christmas, and Harvey gave it up as a lost cause, looking about the place with new eyes.

Home Sweet Home it was then.

* * *

Everything moved lightening quick after that, and if it were real - if it were with anyone other than Jim, at least - Harvey would have been freaking out majorly.

It would have been too much, too fast, and he would have made himself scarce, rather than deal with what a huge step it was.

Instead he did as Jim directed, let him take charge with all the determination of someone who had moved apartment more times than most people had had hot dinners. Obediently packed both their stuff into boxes and watched Jim cover them in color coded sticky labels, though he would have as soon just chucked it loose in the back of the car and got around to sorting it out in a month or two.

Jim was having none of it. Looked as happy as Harvey had ever seen him as he carefully piled books onto a shelf in size order, and hung up what looked like twelve hangers containing the exact same shirt and pants combo.

He dumped all his own stuff in the bottom of his new closet, and forced the door closed so Jim wouldn’t nag him about it. Then he dropped onto his own bed - freshly made courtesy of his roommate - and wondered what he was going to do if it became a regular occurrence. If everyone he told about their living arrangements assumed he and Jim were already sleeping together.

Because the truth was that this was the first night in over a week he had actually spent in a bed that didn’t contain Jim. It felt strange without him, cold and lonely, and he was still tossing and turning in the early hours, wondering how weird it would be on a scale of one to ten if he got up and went to see what Jim was doing, certain he could hear him shifting about in his own bed, on the other side of the partition wall.

Eleven, most likely, and he told himself not to be such a fucking creeper.

Just because Jim hadn’t fallen asleep within three minutes of his head hitting the pillow didn’t mean he wanted his very male, and positively ancient superior officer to crawl into bed next to him.

Except it wasn’t ten minutes later when Jim pushed his bedroom door open and crossed the room to sit on the edge of his bed. Whispered anxiously into the darkened silence,

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

It was a little late to start feeling guilty for railroading them both into what would probably prove to be one of the stupidest decisions either of them had ever made. Still, Harvey groped for Jim’s hand, patted at it heavily and said,

“You’re such a putz,” then, because Jim was incapable of picking up on any but the most blatant social cues, “No, I’m not mad at you.”

Jim let out a breath, relieved, and Harvey prepared to go back to trying and failing to sleep. Simply watched, shocked and numb, as Jim clambered under his blankets. Lay there, disbelieving, as Jim squirmed about, settled down, and started snoring before he had even regained the ability to ask what the hell Jim thought he was playing at.

The whole point of this arrangement was to avoid bed sharing.

At least, that was what he had thought the point of it was.

He was expecting it to be awkward in the morning, for them to have all manner of excruciating things to talk about, but when he opened his eyes he was alone and then, before he could process that, Jim was back with a tray of food, saying,

“Can we just stay in bed today? It is Sunday.”

It was, that was true, but it had never previously served as justification for having Jim feed him and climb back into bed with him. Not that he was knocking it. He ate Jim’s dismally executed pancakes with the kind of enthusiasm other men might reserve for Michelin starred dining, then dozed intermittently while Jim read the newspaper.

Jim napped afterwards, while he supposedly caught up on some more paperwork, and he had to just sit and stare for long minutes, knowing full well what the agonizing, exhilarating ache in his chest was about.

He loved Jim.

He was _in love_ with him.

Had been since near enough the first moment he slapped eyes on him and would be when they put him in his grave, be that a year from now or fifty. He would do anything, give up anything, to be close to Jim. Would manage, somehow, if this was as much as he’d ever get - a too intimate friendship neither one of them could even discuss openly - so long as it meant spending time with him.

They got up for dinner eventually, showered (separately), and by nightfall they were surrounded by fresh sheets, Jim’s hair damp against the pillow as he curled on his side and fell asleep. For his part Harvey couldn’t remember the last time he had got this much shuteye, the last time he had had so little stress on his shoulders.

If it weren’t for the fact his body refused to listen to all his brain’s careful reasoning, he’d not have a care in the world to worry about. Because Jim’s proximity did things to him, reminded him insistently that his feelings for Jim weren’t entirely pure, were very far from platonic. When he did master sleep it was only to fall from one x-rated dream into another, the throbbing between his legs maddening, until he finally realized he was actually awake, and the heavy breathing he could hear - the stifled little gasps, the rustle of fabric - really was coming from Jim Gordon.

He lay stock still, frozen, and stared at the back of Jim’s neck; imagined he could see the flush working its way up it, even in the darkness. He so badly wanted to touch him. So desperately wanted to take over from Jim’s hand and bury his nose in the crook of Jim’s shoulder, where he could breathe in great lungfuls of him.

He wanted to press Jim back into the mattress. Wanted to kiss him over and over, soft and slow, frantic and feverish, until Jim was clinging to his back, begging him for more - for something, anything, because he was so turned on he wasn’t in control of himself.

All he actually did was listen as Jim panted and trembled, as he fussed with a tissue, and waited as long as he could to be sure Jim was asleep before he stumbled to the bathroom and frantically stroked himself.

In the morning Jim was still there, back spooned against his chest, Harvey’s arm around him, like something out of his fairytale fantasies. Harvey pretended to be asleep until Jim hauled himself out of bed.

It was a conversation he just wasn’t ready for.

Might never be ready for it because Jim was so relaxed as he ate breakfast, as he slid into the passenger seat of the car, as he left a hand on his arm for a beat too long before making for his desk that Harvey felt like he was living out an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Jim didn’t do relaxed, and he didn’t often do happy. He certainly didn’t do casually confessing to Alvarez, who clearly hadn’t been home the previous evening,

“I’ve always liked living with someone. Knowing there’s someone who cares whether you come home at night, it’s the best feeling.”

Alvarez was rapping at his office door not half hour later, the words having spent the intervening time twisting and festering. The interruption was enough to make Harvey realize he had been mindlessly sniffing at the skin of his wrist, where the scent of Jim was still noticeable. Alvarez raised an eyebrow and Harvey let his arm drop like a stone.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Tell your boyfriend to back the fuck off,” Alvarez said without preamble, willing to overlook Harvey’s weird indiscretions if it meant word of his own wasn’t going to start making it back to his wife and kids. “If he’s that worried about morality you might try telling him there’s a lot of people who don’t look too kindly on what you two get up to. Or is he still making you wait for the wedding night?”

He saw red. Had never been good at reigning in his temper, especially not when it was Jim’s good name being slandered.

“What is this? Fucking kindergarten? Don’t come in here and start talking bullshit about Jim because you can’t deal with your guilty conscience.”

A glance through his office window revealed Jim to be hard at work, head bent over his case files. He hoped to God Jim wasn’t listening, didn’t want him panicking before they’d ever managed to have a sensible grown-up discussion about the subject.

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” Alvarez shot back, temper just as quick and just as ugly as his own, if not more so, “Gordon can do no fucking wrong in your eyes, can he? I really hope he has got down on his knees for you because if he hasn’t your blind spot is pathetic. Anyone else pulled half the shit he does they’d be out on their ear, and you know it.”

Another glance and they were attracting an audience now, the anger flaring white hot as he saw the stiff tension in Jim’s back, head still bowed resolutely over his caseload. If this was what Alvarez wanted he'd tell Christina himself. He'd show her all the insane ramblings of her latest rival, and advise her on how to get a restraining order put on the both of them.

“You’re on thin ice,” he warned, tone as even as he could manage. “There’s nothing going on between me and Gordon. You got a problem with the way I run things, fine, but you leave him out of it.”

Alvarez rolled his eyes, looked disgusted at the denial. “You must think I was born yesterday.”

“Maybe you were,” Harvey countered, fists clenched at his sides. He wasn’t going to lose it. He wasn’t. “Take a long hard look at your own life because these aren’t my problems. Gordon and I aren’t involved, and I don’t go sticking it in crazy. Now get out of my damn office.”

Alvarez stood his ground for one beat, two, the blood rushing in his own ears all the while, then he finally did as he was told, movements slow just so they both knew what he thought about it. Harvey wanted to punch something, wished that the new desk lamp wasn’t bolted down. Settled for throwing all the reports off his desk, paper flurrying everywhere, then had to bite back the urge to scream as he picked it all up again.

Stared unseeingly at it, the rage still simmering, until he could take it no longer and stepped out onto the balcony. Jim’s desk was deserted however, and in place of letting his presence calm him down he had to make do with yelling at whoever had let the coffee pot go empty.

There was still no sign of Jim at lunch, a post-it note stuck to his in-tray declaring he was chasing up leads, and there was no sign of him when Harvey was ready to clock off for the evening, though his reports were up to date and neatly stacked where they were supposed to be.

Harvey told himself it was a good thing. They weren’t joined at the hip, and his argument with Alvarez was proof that they both needed to spend more time with other people. That Jim was so sickened by the idea of slumming it with Harvey Bullock he couldn’t even bear to look at him.

It was Alvarez who cut through his reverie, the proud set of his jaw belying the apology in his eyes.

“I was out of line earlier. What you and Gordon do and don’t do is your own business.”

“Damn right it is,” Harvey agreed, and reached for his hat and his jacket. Tamped down the lingering resentment then let it go. He was a pragmatist. “Buy me a drink and I might even think about not holding it against you.”

They ended up in one of the department’s preferred dives, familiar faces everywhere, and Alvarez told him that it was over with his latest squeeze. That this time he was going to stop screwing around with girls who turned out to be bunny boilers and start staying faithful to Christina. Harvey only took a long swig of his beer. He would believe it when he seen it.

Sure enough, a few rounds in and Alvarez was already chatting up the pretty new detective who had just transferred from across the river. Harvey just nursed his drink - fuck the twelve-step program - and imagined, as he was ever more fond of doing, what life would be like if he and Jim were a real item.

He wouldn’t disappear off to the car park with someone else for a quick tryst, that was for sure. Would do Jim the damn courtesy of staying faithful. Wouldn’t want to be anything else, not if he had Jim to come home to.

From there it was nothing at all to think of how he did have Jim to go home to, kind of, and from there to imagine what Jim was doing right now. Showering, maybe, hand around himself as he arched his head back into the spray, not stifling the sounds which escaped him. In bed, perhaps, touching himself with barely there caresses, teasing and tormenting, until his breathing was ragged.

Until he couldn’t help himself, bucking up into his own grip, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

Harvey downed the rest of his drink in one smooth motion, just in time for Alvarez’ return, shirt rumpled and hair disheveled. Harvey wondered if it had been worth it.

“You’re not leaving already?” Alvarez asked, gaze on his empty glass, and Harvey shrugged. Saw for the first time what the rest of the department saw, because somewhere over the last few months he had gone from the guy you could rely on to be at the bar until kicking out time, to the guy who rarely darkened its door, too busy playing house with someone who was never, ever going to be able to give him what he really wanted.

Because where yesterday it had seemed doable, manageable, today it seemed impossible. Humiliating, agonizing, absolute torture. Having to pretend that he wasn’t so in love with Jim it hurt to be apart from him. That it hurt to be with him, even, and know he wasn’t allowed to do more than look in Jim’s direction.

He couldn’t do it if Jim was going to taunt him. If he was going to touch himself in his bed and then act like he was the one in the wrong for getting turned on by it.

“I’m not fucking him,” he said, though to Alvarez it must have come from nowhere, and the other man only flagged down the bartender for another round and said,

“I know. You made a big show of telling me.”

Harvey took the offered shot and stared at it for a moment. Slugged it down, grimacing at the burn, then said,

“I want to be.”

“I know,” Alvarez said again, like it was obvious. “You’ve never been any good at hiding it.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Harvey admitted.

Alvarez downed his own shot and gave him a calculating look,

“I'm hardly the person to be giving advice on this, but have you even tried talking to him?”

* * *

It was still relatively early when he got back, not long after eleven, but the apartment was pitch black and deathly silent. He groped about the wall for the light switch - higher than it had been at Jim’s, further to the left than it had been at his old place - and wished he was still turning to copious quantities of drink whenever he had a difficult task ahead of him.

“Jim?” He tried, on the off chance karma was feeling charitable. Rejection would be whole lot easier on the neutral ground of the sofa than it would be ensconced in Jim’s bedroom.

No answer, of course, and he hesitated a moment at Jim’s bedroom door. Perhaps it would be better if he left it until tomorrow. Left it for another time entirely. He pulled himself together and knocked three times against the wood before making his entrance.

He needn’t have worried - the room was empty, Jim’s bed made up with neat hospital corners. The war between relief and disappointment left him lightheaded, and he stumbled to his own room, shucking his shoes and his jacket along the way. Pulled his tie free and ditched his hat, more than ready for the day to be over.

Except when he pushed the door to his own room open it was to find Jim in _his_ bed, hair a mess and face swollen.

The sight of it felt like a knife to the heart.

“I didn’t think you’d be back yet,” Jim said, not quite looking at him, and the scratch in his voice was proof it wasn’t some allergic reaction. He really had been crying.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, demanded, too worried to be subtle about it. “Did something happen on shift? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Because that was usually how this worked. Jim got himself beat up, kept quiet about it until he collapsed or started bawling - or both - and they both ended up at the ER at 3 in the morning, Jim pasty faced and sweating as they waited for a doctor to come and determine how extensive the damage was.

“No,” Jim said too quickly, shook his head and made to get up. He wasn’t quick enough to hide the flush on his cheeks, and he wasn’t quick enough to stop Harvey sitting next to him, one hand reaching for him.

“Let me see, at least. You know you can’t ignore shit like this.”

That way lead infection, sepsis, _death_.

He was sliding the blankets off of him, taking in Jim’s clean white undershirt, glad to see there was no blood seeping through it. They had been there before.

“You ever consider it possible to be upset over something that isn’t physical?” Jim snapped, snatching the blanket back, and it hit Harvey full force because Jim was so obviously frustrated. Wasn’t wincing or cringing in pain, but embarrassment.

“You ever consider that I’m not a mind reader?” Harvey challenged in return, but there was no real bite to it. Now the panic that Jim had been injured was draining away, the rest of it was flooding back to take its place. The want, the hurt, the painful need to see Jim smile again, free and easy, the way he had that morning. “Why don’t you just tell me what the problem is?”

Silence reigned, Jim stubbornly refusing to look at him, and Harvey changed tact.

“Alright, why don’t I tell you what my problem is?” Jim frowned and Harvey kept talking, feeling strangely disconnected from the reality - possibly the finality - of the situation, “Yesterday my life was looking pretty fucking perfect. I didn’t have to be anywhere, didn’t need to do anything. Just got to sit around here with my dumbass partner and it was up there in my top ten, no, top five best days ever.”

Jim risked a glance up at him, waited for the ‘but’ they both knew was coming.

“Then today,” Harvey shook his head, attempted to order his thoughts. “Today I nearly punched one of my best detectives in the face for making me realize that I’d been living in cloud cuckoo land. I can’t keep doing this, Jim. I thought I could but I can’t.” The air was so full of Jim’s scent it was dizzying, even with the distance between them his body heat was tangible. Harvey swallowed, “I can’t lie there and listen to you get yourself off and pretend it doesn’t bother me.”

There was a harsh intake of breath, Jim’s fingers coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, like that was going to be enough to halt the glimmer of wetness already visible.

“I heard,” Jim managed, voice strained and tone accusing. “You don’t stick it in crazy.”

It was Harvey’s turn to frown because of everything, that was what Jim chose to be sensitive about? It wasn’t just Lee’s memory he was contending with, apparently, but Barbara’s too, and why he had ever so much as contemplated having a fighting chance was beyond him. Jim could do better, had done better, and at the end of this maybe they weren’t even going to be able to remain friends.

Maybe that one day of almost contentment was going to be all he had left to console him as he faced a lifetime of Jim not wanting to know him.

Jim took his lack of response as permission to continue and, yeah, the hand at his face was doing less than nothing to hide the fact he was in a bad way. The streak of tears down his cheeks just as unbearable to see as it had been the very first time he witnessed it.

“If that’s what you think of me, why did you let me go on believing?" Jim demanded, "Why did you agree to this?” He gestured around him, meaning the bed, the apartment, everything. “Why did you let me get my hopes up that one day you’d be okay with me wanting you?”

“What?” He sputtered, because his brain was struggling to make sense of the statement. Because that wasn’t what was happening here, not at all. Jim just swiped the back of his hand over his cheeks, angry that he couldn’t stop the outpouring of emotion, and hissed,

“You know how I feel. Everyone knows how I feel. And you just stood there and said that about me.”

Realization was dawning, leaving him feeling sick and euphoric all at once. Hot and cold in equal measure, as though he couldn’t decide what to focus on first - the fact that Jim wanted him, or the fact that Jim was in his bed, using up a whole year’s worth of open emotion on the batshit idea it was Harvey who was reluctant to take things a step further.

“You idiot,” was what Harvey went with, cupping Jim’s face in his hands, “you stupid, beautiful idiot.”

Jim tensed, looked like he might protest, but then Harvey was kissing him and Jim was melting into it. Was clinging to him like a lifeline and Harvey couldn’t get close enough, would never be able to get close enough, lost in the wet heat of Jim’s mouth, chasing away the salt of his tears. When he pulled back it was only far enough to look into Jim’s eyes, their foreheads still touching.

“Alvarez’ latest chick,” he started, thumb stroking along Jim’s cheekbone, “she’s nuts, you know. I wouldn’t go there.”

He had to kiss Jim again, just briefly.

“But you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I first lay eyes on you.”

Another kiss, the barest slick of tongue this time.

“I’ve been in love with you since the first time you stood up to me. I’ve been killing myself trying not to touch you since the first time we shared a bed together.”

Jim looked as flustered as he felt. Lost and more than a little bewildered. He stuttered out,

“I thought - I thought maybe you were thinking about it sometimes. I didn’t want to push you.”

“Push me?” He could laugh if it wasn’t so tragic. “See this is why talking is good, Jim.”

Looking back, he could see it. Could picture the nights when Jim had laid there looking at him through lowered lashes, like he thought Harvey couldn't tell that he was still awake. Like Harvey wasn't living through his own personal purgatory, half wild with the need to pull Jim closer to him. He stroked his fingertips against the hair at Jim's nape, just to watch him shiver, and said,

“We’re going to do lots of talking from now on. In fact, I’m never going to shut up about how much I want you.”

Except, possibly, when Jim was kissing him the way he was right now, fingers curling in his hair even as he tried to push closer. Was all but in his lap, months and months of frustration finding an outlet in his frantic, desperate movements. 

“Talking, Jim,” Harvey soothed, trying to calm him down a little. Just enough that this wouldn’t be over before it had even started. “Remember that? Tell me what you want.”

Jim looked lost for a moment, struggling to focus as though it was all simply too much to process. Then he took hold of Harvey's hand and pushed it into the heated space between them, just as demanding as Harvey had always imagined he would be. Kissed him again, messily, and panted,

“I just, I want you. Please, Harvey.”

They would work on it, Harvey decided. Would practice every day for the rest of their lives until Jim could describe what he wanted Harvey to do to him in minute detail. In the present he took pity on him. Took pity on himself, as well, and worked Jim closer and closer, until Jim was gasping into the crook of his neck, shaking and trembling.

Harvey held Jim close afterwards, kissed him down from it, and told him finally,

“Just so there is no misunderstanding, I love you, Jim. I love you more than anything.”

“I love you too,” Jim murmured, blissed out and happy, the easy smile from earlier returning. Harvey kissed him again, just because he could, and said,

“Next time we’ve been dating for six months, make sure you tell me, okay?”

This time around, it really would be something worth celebrating.

**Author's Note:**

> I've also written Jim's POV of this fic [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9382553/chapters/34534283). For my full Gordlock fic index, click [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9382553/chapters/26421444).
> 
> As ever, feel free to chat / hit me with prompts over on Tumblr [@serenwib](http://serenwib.tumblr.com/) or Twitter [@falsteloj](https://twitter.com/falsteloj). :)


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